


The Hand That Holds You Down

by Neffectual



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Slavery, Power Dynamics, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3100724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris knows he could hold down men with one hand, if he chose - but the pleasure is in finding those who hold themselves down for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hand That Holds You Down

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Everclear's 'Everything to Everyone'.

_You say they taught you to read and write_   
_Yeah they taught you how to count_   
_I say they taught you how to buy and sell your own body by the pound_   
_I think you like to be their simple toy_   
_I think you love to play the clown_   
_I think you are blind to the fact that the hand you hold is the hand that holds you down._

 

Fenris has not been with many people since he became free. There is an expectation of him, despite the sword he carries which is almost twice his weight, and the way the lyrium brands light up; those who seek him out believe that his race and his former slavery make him a perfect candidate for dominance play. Fenris puts to rest those rumours sharpish; he does not take, he does not submit, and he does not kneel before any man, because to submit would be to give in, would be to lose, would make him unimportant. Fenris’ breath is forced out in a harsh laugh – to submit would be to be broken. Oh, anyone can force submission, tie them down and make the take what is meted out, ignoring any watchword or pleas to stop, but Fenris is not that man, nor will he ever be, not when he knows what it is to be the other side of that coin, to feel helpless, disgraced, awash with shock that something meant to be so sacred can be taken so easily by hands with filthy fingernails, and a face which snarls as it takes pleasure. Fenris has been on his knees for magisters, he has bowed and scraped and been grateful for a soft touch rather than flinched away as he would a beating, but he is not that man anymore.

Being told, all his life, that he is unimportant, lesser, less than nothing, has sunk in, and Fenris is sometimes afraid it has left a brand more permanent than the lyrium lines which decorate his skin. His appetites are more what he would expect from a magister than a slave, and he wonders if he has been tainted by that which was done to him, learnt to wish that he was behind the whip instead of underneath it. He views sex and power as interchangeable, he knows that, and knows also that it is why he could never have had Hawke. The man is used to his power and place in society, wears it easily, like a comfortable coat which he never takes off, even in his own home, and Fenris finds that too threatening a prospect, even when it is wrapped in a temptingly mouth-watering package. No, another warrior will not do; Fenris can overpower them physically with ease, often without activating his brands, but there are few other alternatives. The rogues would give him a tumble, without a doubt – Isabela is more forward than the prow of a ship and has more front than the docks she is so fond of, but there would be no manner of subduing her. Even gagged, Isabela would give you a saucy wink, and know that it was all a game. She would not let him find his solace in her, nor her in him.

The mage fights him, constantly, whether in bed or out of it, and Fenris finds he enjoys the challenge of keeping him well-behaved and compliant, without any method of taking his magic from him. No, Fenris thinks, there is little power in subduing the mage with Templar spells and other magic-dampening; even the way the Qunari treat their mages gives power to the creatures, shows them that those around them are fearful. Anders does not use his magic around Fenris except in times of battle, and even then, he apologises after, with his eyes looking down, mouth full and hands behind his back. That’s where the power is for the elf, in the flex of a hand one the mage’s shoulder, and knowing that he could snap that pretty head off those broad shoulders, and that even better, he won’t have to. Anders follows orders well, for an apostate, now that he’s trained. There’s no need to leash or collar someone who crawls willingly at your feet, and instructing him to light candles or heat bath water is a special touch, proof that even his magic belongs to Fenris when they are like this.

Anders has never yet used his watchword, and Fenris suspects he never will, even their agreement that a frost spell in the air will act as their stopping point if the mage’s mouth is gagged or otherwise occupied. Between them like this, there is no politics, the mage silent on rights and regulations, his own refusing to utter the hated word ‘slave’, there is no master here. The mage hands control over willingly, and Fenris would be both blind and stupid not to realise that this is where he feels most alive, knowing that Anders’ life is handed to him, to do with it as he chooses, and that he ensures, every time, that the mage can still walk the next day, that his rope burns are healed just enough to keep the sting, but not enough to impede movement. His power is in how much he doesn’t do to the mage, not in how much he can do; his power is in keeping the mage coming back for more, begging like the sweet thing he is, which Fenris so loves to hear.

When Anders is tied beneath him, bindings he could easily break with fire or a word, writhing and begging, Fenris will bit at the back of his neck, the little wolf he is named after out to play, marking, claiming, owning, and Ander’s back will arch against the strain of keeping still and quiet. Fenris fucks him hard, with vicious thrusts which push the mage into the headboard, cause the bed to knock against the wall hard enough that dust falls from the canopy. Later, the mage will mutter about cleaning up the old mansion, but it will only take one sharp look from fierce green eyes for him to remember to keep a civil tongue in his head. For now, his only noises are gratifying moans and pleas, Fenris digging nails into his shoulder to steady himself, drawing blood in his attempt to keep up the punishing pace, biting again when Anders attempts to get a hand on himself, as if he won’t come from this alone, as if he doesn’t need this just as much as Fenris.

The mage doesn’t stay afterwards. He’s never asked to, and Fenris never offers. They have their passion, and then it is over for another night, the watchword unsaid, and nothing but a nod of acknowledgement passing between them. If Fenris is lonely, he must not notice, he thinks, because after he sates himself, he sleeps better than he thought possible, and his reaction to waking to an empty bed is to stretch out, glad of the space. For a little while, he is satisfied with his lot in life, his empty mansion, his empty days, and if he finds himself missing the mage at all, he tells himself it is only for his warmth, as the winter nights draw in. Control is important, Fenris learnt that the hard way – and the first person he learnt to control was himself.


End file.
